Dark Sarcasm in the Classroom
by Madame Oubliette
Summary: Forced to find a marriage partner within 30 days as a result of a Marriage Law introduced in the wake of Voldemort's death, Hermione's sham marriage to George Weasley is quickly rumbled, leaving the MOM free to select a certain Potions Master as her groom
1. Chapter 1 : A Convenient Arrangement

Chapter 1: A Convenient Arrangement

"I don't believe it."

Harry watched his friend turn a queasy shade of green as she lowered the parchment from her face.

"What is it, Hermione?" He leant forward, touching her arm reassuringly across the breakfast table.

"You'll never guess what they've gone and done. Oh, Harry, it's too terrible!"

"No, we probably won't if you don't tell us," Ron said irritably, striding into the room with his briefcase in one hand and a half-eaten piece of buttered toast in the other. "Oh." He stopped dead when he saw the Ministry of Magic envelope lying open in front of her. "Is that what I think it is?"

Hermione nodded slowly, biting her bottom lip. "They've only gone and sent me a Marriage Contract. Twenty-two years old and they already want me married off and breeding!" she finished derisively, brandishing the offending document under his face.

Ron took a seat at the table, his early morning meeting with the Bulgarian Undersecretary for Magical Games and Sports temporarily forgotten.

"Does it say who they want you to marry?" Harry prompted.

"Only the usual specifications; a pureblood wizard under the age of sixty of healthy mind and body," she quoted from the small print in a disdainful voice. "Oh, and that I have thirty days to find the particular gentleman."

"You should count yourself lucky, 'Mione - Penelope Clearwater's Marriage Contract was already filled in when she got hers. Married within twenty-one days of receiving her letter."

"Lucky? Lucky?" she shrieked, crimson spots appearing on her cheeks as she raised her head to stare disbelieving at Ron. "Oh, yes, aren't the Ministry ever so compassionate? Fancy that, allowing me to _choose_ which ageing pureblood I am to submit myself to."

"Hermione, it says here that this is your final warning. You didn't tell us you'd had other letters." Harry looked at her questioningly.

"Well you try finding your 'one true love' when everyone knows you're desperately searching for a husband so you don't get assigned some dried up old vegetable by the Ministry. I thought I had plenty of time to find a candidate myself, I thought…" she trailed off, embarrassed.

Had it really come to this? She'd thought vanquishing Voldemort would be the last great trial in her life over, that finally she could start living again and acting like a normal witch her age. She hadn't counted on the new Minister for Magic, Dirk Cresswell, introducing a Marriage Law before the celebratory confetti had even cleared from Diagon Alley_. 'This is a vulnerable time for the wizarding community,_' he had announced pompously to the _Daily Prophet_, '_a time when we all need to take stock of our future. So many promising young wizards and witches destroyed in the war - whole generations of families wiped out.'_ He had gone on to note the rising number of Squibs born to pure-blood families and concluded that the only way to ensure the wizarding world's continued existence was to enact a repopulation programme between pure-bloods and Muggle-borns to ensure healthy, magical offspring.

"I'm sure it will all work out in the end. We'll see to it, Hermione." Harry promised, giving her hand a tight squeeze.

"But what if – what if," Hermione let out a strangled hiccough, "what if I don't find someone in time and they marry me off to some awful geriatric?"

Ron looked uncomfortable as she started to cry - great heaving sobs over her breakfast bowl.

"It won't come to that. If worst comes to worst… well, we'll find someone for you, won't we Ron?" He shot his friend a meaningful look across the table.

"Yeah, erm, of course, Hermione."

"I – I better get to work," Hermione said, suddenly embarrassed as she dragged her robe sleeve across her tear-stained face. "Thank Molly for a nice weekend."

Harry and Ron watched silently as she flooed out of the Burrow.

"Well?" Harry raised an eyebrow at Ron questioningly.

"Well what?" he replied irritably.

"Are you going to ask her?"

Ron groaned. "Look, that was all over a long time ago. She made _that_ perfectly clear," he muttered into his toast. "To be honest, Harry, I'd rather not talk about it.

"What happened between you two?" Harry mused aloud, with no real hope of an answer. That Hermione and Ron's relationship had failed to mature beyond sexually fraught but essentially pettish arguments had remained a source of eternal mystery to Harry. Hermione remained aloof to suggestions that their friendship had ever been anything more than platonic, while Ron merely responded to any such probing by thrusting his hands grumpily into his pockets and maintaining a stony silence.

"It was a long time ago," Ron said shortly. "I better get going. I'm already running late."

He followed Hermione's exit, only to be replaced by another redheaded Weasley the instant his robes whipped out of sight. Harry smiled; it was like that in this house, living proof that nature hated a vacuum.

"Alright, George?" It had become a lot easier to distinguish between the twins since they had left Hogwarts and been allowed to develop as separate entities instead of a one-headed, multi-limbed whirlwind running along the school corridors.

"Why so glum?"

"This." Harry slid the letter across the table towards George.

"Ah." He paused, rummaging through his pockets for something before pulling out an identical piece of parchment. "Snap."

Harry's jaw hit the floor. "Seriously?"

George nodded his head. "Never more so - painful experience has taught me never to joke when it comes to the fairer sex. I won't reveal the gory details but let's just say that they teach things to those Beauxbaton girls that go way beyond the realms of proportionate force."

Harry grinned despite himself. Only George could try to find humour in the situation.

"I got my final warning yesterday. I guess six red-haired siblings are enough to ensure that no Muggle-born sees me as a nice safe option. Probably rather take their luck with a former Death-Eater than submit to the famed Weasley fertility. Although the faces of the few girls who have signed Marriage Contracts for me would prove contraception enough," George said, pulling a face.

"At least you've had offers. Hermione's scared she's going to be have to marry the Ministry's default option - and we all know what that means."

George grimaced. He had heard enough insider information from his father and Ron to know that compatibility had very little say in the selection process.

"I expect she'll get some liver-spotted, wrinkly-assed old man wheezing over her every night until his heart finally gives out, and you'll get some snaggle-toothed witch who nags you non-stop to get a proper job. Fancy that; you'll both be placed with total strangers who'll make your lives misery." He shot a sneaky side-ways glance at George as he pretended to read the small print at the bottom of Hermione's letter.

"Yeah, thanks for that heart-warming picture. You should take over Trelawney's job."

"I'm just saying. If it was me I'd probably try to find a friend in a similar position – you could always dissolve the marriage in a few years time citing lack of issue, by which point you might have found someone you actually want to marry."

George grinned slyly at Harry. "That stupid sorting hat got it completely wrong about you, mate."

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"Oh, George, it's a brilliant idea!" Hermione's eyes lit up as George leaned back in satisfaction, taking a well-earned slug from his Firewhisky. He had Owled her to meet him in the Three Broomsticks straight after work, intent on formulating Harry's proposal – well, _his_ proposal as it turned out. "But, are you sure you don't mind? You'd be sacrificing an awful lot to help me out."

"I stand to lose just as much as you from this," he pointed out. "Merlin knows that _I_ have no desire to settle down and renounce a perfectly healthy sex life just yet."

Hermione eyed him speculatively while his attention was diverted to his drink. Yes, she could imagine that George was perfectly content with the status quo – and why wouldn't he be? He had built up a successful business whilst still young enough to enjoy the accolades and profits thereby gained. The only real surprise to his suggestion was that it should be directed toward herself. Truth was, despite sharing a mutual interest in Ronald Weasley for many years the two of them had rarely interacted on a personal level - unless one counted the occasional heated exchange about the twins' elastic ethics in the Gryffindor Common Room, and she personally preferred not to, sparing herself the cringe-worthy memories of adolescent fervour. She wondered if this was why they had never progressed beyond the realm of comfortable but inane small talk, relying on outdated notions of one another's characters instead of bothering to take the time to get to know one other. With this in mind, she raised the obvious objection.

"We're hardly the most conventional couple though, are we? And any speculation others make is likely to be public. We'll be wide open to Ministry scrutiny."

George considered her words before placing his tumbler carefully down on the soggy cardboard mat. "I don't see why our partnership should be so incredible."

Hermione snorted before catching sight of George's expression. He frowned into his drink – Merlin's beard but she didn't have to make her distaste for what she clearly considered an inferior match quite so obvious. Ever since he could remember it seemed that he had failed to live up to her lofty ideals, evident in some belittling remark or derisory glance. Fred had only laughed off his concerns on the one occasion he had sought to broach them, questioned why he even cared what she thought and told him that he was worth ten of her _'or two at least, anyway.'_ He was not so easily convinced but he pushed the uncomfortable thought away in order to deal with the present.

"We've known each other since Hogwarts, and we've always been part of the same extended social group. People will simply assume you've been carrying a torch for me all these years – well, you're only human," he added, with a twinkle in his eye.

"I suppose you're right," Hermione said uncertainly, "but in spite of all that I don't feel like I know an awful lot about you," she admitted, blushing as she said it.

"We can soon sort that," George grinned optimistically, assured that he could act perfectly charming when the occasion required. "Although it will require dispensing with the soft drinks."

Hermione eyed her lemonade wistfully. It wouldn't do for word to get out among her pupils that she regularly drank in Hogsmeade. Besides, _he_ would have even more to say on the matter. She shuddered as she thought of the cold, snarky Potions Master who had attempted to make her teaching career as uncomfortable as possible ever since she had joined Hogwarts' staff as Arithmancy Master. But then desperate times called for desperate measures. She got up and followed George to the bar.

"So you, erm, like Whisky?" Hermione asked as she perched tentatively on the neighbouring bar stool.

"What's not to like?" George shot back, training his eyes away from the barman's ministrations and onto her face. "Taste – good. Feeling – good. Beer goggles - essential when you have red hair and freckles."

She smiled politely before lowering her eyes to the line of dubious coloured shots that had been laid along the bar top at George's bequest. "I don't know if this is such a good idea. I have classes tomorrow."

George sniggered unkindly. "And what, you have an overdue Potions essay?"

"It's not that," she replied, visibly bristling. Years had passed since they had left Hogwarts, and yet such comments almost perfectly transported Hermione back to the bottom of the playground hierarchy that the twins' had regally presided over. She responded coolly. "I have responsibilities now, a position of dignity to maintain."

"Bit late for that considering you've just agreed to become Mrs. George Weasley," George muttered as he picked up a shot glass. "To us?" he proposed sarcastically, raising his glass in a toast.

Hermione sighed, before following suit. "To us," she repeated wearily. "Oh my lord!" she choked, fanning her mouth ineffectually with her hand as the burning liquid seared down her throat. "What did you order, paint stripper?"

George grinned devilishly. "Go on, your turn to toast."

"To lost dignity?" Hermione suggested, trying to imagine introducing her new husband to the grey-haired academics who sat on the Arithmancy Board.

"Amen to that," George said raising his glass.

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"Insufferable Weasley," Hermione muttered to herself the next day as she nursed a very sore head over breakfast in the Great Hall. Why did she always let them talk her into these things? It was a myth that redheads were naturally tempestuous; they merely provoked the tempers of everyone else around them.

"Are you feeling unwell today, Hermione?" Dumbledore turned towards her, a twinkling in his eye which pricked uncomfortably at Hermione's conscience.

"Slight stomach upset." She smiled wryly, rubbing her abdomen in demonstration.

A loud snort erupted on the other side of Dumbledore and Hermione leaned forward to encounter a sallow, humourless face.

"Something the matter, Severus?" she enquired sarcastically, ignoring Dumbledore's amused smile as best she could. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy the explosive effects of seating Hermione and Snape either side of himself at mealtimes. Mostly they managed to mutually ignore one another like an unpleasant but bearable odour, but other times Hermione suspected that Dumbledore deliberately strayed into controversial territory in order to provoke some free entertainment with his meals.

Snape resorted to his usual tactic of pretending that Hermione Granger had left Hogwarts the day she sat her final N.E.W.T. He glared at the Gryffindor table, willing it to spontaneously combust and rid the world of the next generation of little brats. He supposed this damned Marriage Law would put paid to that hope. In several years time there would be even more of the little shits running willy-nilly around the castle, disturbing his classroom and his sleep. Maybe it really was time to move on, he thought sourly to himself. _'Move on where?'_ a mocking voice answered in his head. _'Who would employ a former Death-Eater now?'_

"Ah, morning post," Dumbledore announced, sounding outrageously cheery for so early in the day.

Snape averted his gaze back to his breakfast – it was not as though he ever received anything through the post these days, except the odd crank letter that had managed to slip through the detectors. He touched his face subconsciously as the unpleasant memory of the last letter bomb he had received resurfaced.

"Shoo, away with you!" He batted at a distinguished looking tawny owl, brandishing his spoon as menacingly as he could.

"Ahem," Dumbledore coughed quietly, pointing to the letter addressed to Professor Snape that was tied to the owl's foot.

Snape reached forward and clumsily pulled the letter free, causing the owl to give an indignant hoot as it flew off. He turned the letter over in his hand, trying to detect anything amiss.

"Go on, I'm sure it won't bite, Severus." Dumbledore seemed to be taking a inordinate amount of interest in his post this morning.

"Judging on past correspondence I'm not so sure," Snape replied testily, before gingerly lifting the flap of the sealed enveloped and pulling out the letter.

His shrill scream was reputed to have travelled all the way to Hagrid's hut.

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A/N:

Fic concept inspired by the WIKTT Marriage Law Challenge.


	2. Chapter 2 : Meet The Weasleys

Chapter 2: Meet The Weasleys 

In reality, of course, Snape's uncharacteristic outburst merely succeeded in startling a passing Hufflepuff into offloading her porridge onto the floor but, as Harry's experience at Hogwarts confirmed, news of one's misfortunes often travels faster than news of one's triumphs.

"How – how dare they!" he spluttered, crumpling the parchment between trembling fingers.

"Bad news?" Dumbledore inquired innocently.

"Oh, did something I say give it away?" Snape snapped back. "I thought you told me you'd sorted this?" he growled, depositing the letter squarely on top of Dumbledore's breakfast.

Dumbledore brushed the grease spots off impatiently with his robe sleeve, frowning down at the formal black print. "Well," he said simply after a considerable period of silence.

"'_Well_?' Is that the only comment I'm to receive on the impending destruction of my life?" he said, snatching the parchment back.

Dumbledore tutted. "Come, come. It doesn't do to exaggerate."

"I'd rather eat my knees with a fork than submit to this – this ridiculous insult to my sacrifices." He banged his fist down angrily on the table.

"My, what an interesting turn of phrase you have, Severus."

Snape visibly bristled. "I'll be discussing this with you later. Away from prying eyes," he said, glaring coldly at Hermione.

Hermione watched him go with a puzzled look - what did she care that he'd got another poison pen letter? It was hardly breaking news and, at times like these, she couldn't help rooting for the psychopath. Dumbledore must have noticed her expression, for he turned round and patted her hand reassuringly. "Just a little misunderstanding, I'm sure."

Unfortunately, Snape possessed none of his optimism, and his mood only darkened as the day progressed. He supposed he should have seen it coming, really. Despite the Order of Merlin publicly testifying to the contrary, it still rankled the Ministry of Magic that Snape had played them for a fool for so long, making a mockery of their intelligence department during the war. This was their perfect revenge, foisting some unwanted spinster into his life and bed. He shuddered at the thought. _'Dumbledore was supposed to sort it,'_ an angry voice iterated in his head. After all he'd done for him – for everyone, really – and this was his reward. Quite frankly he was starting to question whether Voldemort himself would have conjured such an absurd and sadistic piece of legislation. And at least under Voldemort his marriage partner would have been of the more desirable sort. He shook his head.

"Seat, Severus?" Dumbledore waved his arm magnanimously in the direction of a tall-backed armchair opposite his own fireside seat as they sat down to their evening interview.

"You had led me to understand that I was to be exempt from the Ministry's interference," Snape said in a tight voice, bypassing any introductory niceties.

Dumbledore sighed. "And so I honestly believed - right up till the moment you received your summons. Yes, I truly had no idea they intended to disregard my earlier request."

"Surely you can write to them again, explain my circumstances?" He rose abruptly from his chair, pacing in front of the fire with his hands behind his back and a troubled frown on his face.

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid there really is nothing I can do. It's entirely out of my hands now." He spread his empty hands to illustrate the point. "That contract is so watertight you could sail it across the lake."

"Or use it to wipe your-"

"Severus!" Dumbledore interjected. "Please try to keep your comments constructive." He eyed Snape disapprovingly over his half-moon spectacles, making him feel like an errant schoolboy all over again. It was a discomforting feeling, and a technique which Dumbledore seemed particularly adept at. Snape wondered whether he would be able induce the same effect on his former pupils - whether, years from now, he would succeed in transporting the Longbottoms and Weasleys of this world back to the cowed, wide-eyed children he had encountered across the classroom. Then he remembered Hermione Granger and his lip curled with derision. Yes, she was walking proof that he had retained his touch – she still seemed to expect him to take off house points for walking around the castle after hours.

"This is ridiculous! Haven't I given them enough? My blood, my sweat, my youth and now they want, what, my firstborn?" he snorted. "And what good am I anyway, my mother didn't marry into a traditional family. Surely the nations' reserves of pure-blood bachelors can't be so depleted that I am to be counted among their ranks?"

"Has it occurred to you that you were targeted less for your ancestral past than for your recent actions?"

Snape immediately stopped pacing. "Yes, I had thought of that," he confessed, massaging his brow as he sank back into the armchair. "But why now?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "I'm afraid my influence carries much less weight than it used to. Perhaps they were merely waiting all along for an opportune moment."

"Ridiculous!" Snape repeated, as though hoping the Marriage Contract would transform itself into a stray Boggart. "Surely there must be a loophole here somewhere!" He stared at the text in front of his eyes with an expression of acute concentration.

"I've studied the contract extensively and I'm afraid it truly is unbreakable." Dumbledore paused, before continuing in an excited rush. "I hear they employed Goblin drafters! Extraordinary, really." He shook his head in wonder.

"Yes, let's just sit here admiring the phraseology, shall we? Because that would be really _constructive_," Snape drawled sarcastically. "There must be more to it," he muttered under his breath, eyes flitting rapidly across the page.

Dumbledore stared into the fire, watching the flames curl and crackle as the silence lengthened. He smiled to himself. Sometimes fate had a strange way of working.

"Promise me one thing," Dumbledore looked up at the tone of pleading in Snape's voice, shaken out of his reverie. "Promise that, until I find a way out of this, you'll keep it to yourself."

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'_She's actually alright when she loosens up a bit,'_ George mused to himself as he held first one set of robes, and then another against his body in front of the full-length mirror. He decided in favour of the dark purple robes and laid the discarded set on the bed. Sure, there had been a time when you never would have guessed her parents' vocation, and it still wouldn't kill her to break open a bottle of Sleakeazy's once in a while, but it wasn't as though he had chosen her for her looks. If _that_ had been his sole concern then things would have been a lot easier, but physical gratification had been the least of his worries upon receiving a Marriage Contract from the Ministry of Magic.

He had regarded his first letter with little more than distracted annoyance, handing the offending document to Verity at the end of a busy week with instructions to inform the Ministry of their error. When a second, third and fourth notification had been received he had resigned himself to taking the afternoon off and making a personal visit to the Ministry of Magic in order to close the matter. To be informed that there had been a clerical error had been small comfort indeed upon discovering that the Marriage Contract could not be revoked.

But then George was a pragmatic sort of person and he wasn't about to waste any time on maudlin self-pity, beyond venting the necessary string of expletives. Nursing a pint in the Leaky Cauldron later on he had considered his options – an exercise somewhat curtailed by a general reluctance to view the martial state with anything short of bemused distaste. To him, marriage inhabited that same category of the inexplicably popular to which he also consigned trade magazines and non-contact sports, so what sort of endorsement was his mother's oft-cried plea that everyone else did it? Confronted with the total futility of the task ahead he had followed the only sensible course of action; got steaming drunk and removed himself from social circulation for the weekend by stumbling over to his parent's house.

It was there that Harry had made the quiet suggestion that had transformed George's outlook. Rather than searching for a suitable bridal partner with which to spend the rest of his life he had merely to find someone who has trustworthy and clever, and above all someone sensible enough not to get carried away with romantic notions in the process. As someone who's solvency depended on the ridiculous, George rarely dealt in the sensible, so that his mind instantly connected with the one person upon whom such qualities could be depended; Hermione Granger. He could hardly think of a more appropriate specimen than a girl who had evangelised on elf rights at her hormonal peak.

Of course, Fred couldn't quite appreciate such heroic pragmatism. _'What on earth do you want to marry miss iron knickers for?'_ he had spluttered incredulously when George had broken the news earlier in preparation for this evening's general announcement to the rest of the family. Brushing the globules of projectile tea from the front of his robes, George had patiently explained that he had to marry someone, and had just been about to describe the exact nature of his obligation when Fred had butted in angrily and accused him of betraying the sacred Forge creed. Heedless to any attempts at interruption, he had predicted copious weight gain, a sense of humour bypass and gone on to outline a dire future where George's primary concern and sole topic of conversation centred around which school little Suzy would get into, before showering George in even more tea by slamming his mug down angrily on the table and storming out of the room. Despite receiving a muttered apology several hours later, George had felt disinclined to correct his twin's assumptions in return for such a poor show of faith. It would do some good to re-assert himself and administer a bit of a shake-up to the Weasley family's established viewpoint of George P. Weasley. With that in mind, and with a final reassuring glance at his reflection, George walked over to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo Powder.

"Wotcher, Hermione." He grinned as he stepped out from the green flames and gave his robes a quick brush-down over her hearthrug.

"You're late," she replied in a matter-of-fact voice, looking him directly in the eye as she tried to resist from making an unflattering double-take at the immaculately-dressed young man in front of her.

He waited for comment on his attire, having dispensed with the usual Dragonskin jacket in direct response to Fred's provocation, but was forced to reflect that Hermione was more concerned with his time-keeping skills than the amazing transformation wrought in her honour.

"You look nice," he said, breaking the silence.

"Oh. Thanks," she replied, rediscovering her tongue. "You only get one chance to make a first impression."

George chortled. "I think you're about eleven years too late for that – and you had the gall to quibble over my punctuality!"

"Oh, that was entirely different," Hermione said dismissively. "That was the first time your family met Hermione Granger - this is the first time they meet Hermione Weasley."

"Er, aren't they one and the same?" George said, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

Hermione sighed patiently. "Unfortunately, prospective daughter-in-laws are subject to rather more stringent assessment than childhood school friends. God alone knows how Molly is gong to react," she added darkly.

George paused thoughtfully before opening his mouth to respond.

"I've got one word for you," Hermione said, holding her hand up to forestall any objection, "Fleur," she finished significantly.

"Are you kidding?" George said incredulously. "I don't think she'd care if I brought home the giant squid just so long as it agreed to marry me. Bill was the shining golden boy; I'm more of a dull, tarnished sort of colour, saved from a life of dissolute bachelorhood by the love of a good woman. Besides, Fleur was different, she was…" he trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Beautiful?" Hermione shot back, fixing him with another of those unblinking stares.

"I was going to say something along the lines of 'difficult'," he said, colouring slightly under her gaze. He looked at her from lowered lids as she made her final preparations to leave. No, she certainly could not be described as any great beauty, but then he doubted whether it was something on which she had ever wasted much thought, and he rather resented the accusation that it was the only layer lesser minds were capable of discerning. "Well, shall we make a move?" he said shortly

She nodded, hesitating at the proffered arm before taking hold as they stepped into the hearth and began their inexorable journey toward The Burrow. She tightened her grip on George's arm as they sped through the floo network at a dizzying rate, staggering out to face an audience that seemed to comprise the entire Weasley family.

"Oh, Hermione, how lovely to see you." Mrs. Weasley took a step forward, kissing Hermione lightly on each cheek. "You'll excuse the crowd – we're waiting for our first glimpse of George's fiancée. Imagine that, my second boy to get married!" She dabbed at a tear in the corner of her eye. "He's kept it quite to himself. Have you met her?"

"Er…" Hermione hesitated, looking from one expectant face to another with a sense of rising panic.

"Actually, you've all met her," George said loudly, stepping in to rescue Hermione. There was a pregnant pause while George placed his arm proprietarily around Hermione's shoulder. "Allow me to introduce your future daughter-in-law."

If Hermione's nervous attempt at a smile resembled more of a grimace than an expression of pleasure it went unnoticed in the following commotion as every Weasley attempted to speak at once.

"…but when did…"

"…why didn't you tell us…"

George raised his hand for silence. "All I can say is that we wanted to keep it quiet until we were quite sure of our feelings. Isn't that right, darling?" He gave Hermione a squeeze and planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek which she responded to by giving him a sharp dig in the ribs.

"I'm so happy for you both, but, oh, it all seems so sudden." Mrs. Weasley clasped a hand to her chest and sat down in the fireside rocker with a thump, her face draining of colour.

"What was that all about?" Hermione hissed out of the corner of her mouth to George as the other Weasleys clustered around their mother in concern.

"Just adding a little authenticity - all part of the show," George said, snaking his arm further around her waist as he took full advantage of the rare opportunity to wrong-foot Hermione Granger.

"Well can we make it less of an exhibition!" she snapped, batting his hand away irritably. Really, anyone would think he was enjoying this!

"Suit yourself." George shrugged, before walking over to accept an enthusiastic backslapping from his father and a bone-crushing hug from his mother.

"Come here, Hermione." She inhaled the rich scent of cinnamon as Mrs. Weasley enveloped her in a warm embrace. "Welcome to the Weasley family. Of course, I had hoped before… but that's in the past," she finished brightly, flashing Hermione a smile.

Even Fred came over to offer mumbled congratulations, which George accepted with pointed magnanimity. Only Ron stayed his distance, sulking in the corner.

"Since when were you and George an item?" he huffed.

"It's been a while now," Hermione said, blushing at the lie as she tried to catch George's eye.

"Yeah, since you received that Marriage Contract I reckon," Ron muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" She turned around distractedly to face Ron.

"Well what a coincidence. You need a husband and suddenly George finds himself the object of your affection. Couldn't trap me into it so you switch your attentions to my brother – next best thing, isn't he?"

Hermione frowned. "Not that it's any of your business, Ronald, but I just so happen to be in love with George." Ron snorted sceptically. "Maybe one day you'll realise that the world doesn't revolve around your big head," she huffed, before returning to George's side and making a point of wrapping her arm around his waist.

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Snape stared at the letter for the hundredth time that week, willing it to reveal some hitherto undetected flaw he could exploit. But Dumbledore had been right, and there really was nothing he could do. That left only one option - he had thirty days to find a wife.

He leant back in his chair, closing his eyes in concentration, but no viable candidates sprang to mind. Maybe his mother had been right - that, in the past, he had been too particular. Now it was too late for all that and he was too confirmed in his bachelor ways to even contemplate disrupting his comfortable routine. A woman in his life would be difficult enough to accommodate, but children too? He grimaced. Not for him strained family mealtimes and screaming tantrums.

He looked at the letter again. Thirty days or they would select a candidate for him. He shuddered. God only knew what sort of woman received no marriage offers and required automatic matching by the Ministry.

He picked up the other piece of mail he had received that week - a wedding invitation, of all things. How fitting. He turned the thick, white card over in his hand, idly tracing a finger along the looping gold writing until he realised that he had been inadvertently tracing Hermione Granger's initials. He pulled his finger away sharply. Now this piece of mail had come as no surprise at all - as far as he was concerned it had only been a matter of time before that infuriating know-it-all latched herself onto a Weasley and succeeded in producing another endless line of imbeciles. He promised himself that he would quit teaching before the sorting hat got anywhere near the first Granger-Weasley head.

No, the only surprise surrounding their imminent nuptials had been the inclusion of his name on the guest list. But then he understood that it was to be something of an event, taking place in Hogwarts itself and that all the staff had been invited as mere formality. Of course, he had initially planned to find himself unavoidably absent over the period, but then the thought had occurred that it might provide the ideal opportunity for finding himself a wife.

He examined his face critically in a small, dirty mirror, frowning as he noticed a deep wrinkle on his forehead. Not bad. Maybe his nose was slightly hooked, but that only leant him an air of noble dignity, and if his skin was slightly sallow that only testified to the hours spent indoors engaged in worthwhile intellectual pursuit.

Unfortunately, the looking glass begged to differ.

"Not looking your best, are we?" a shrill voice piped up.

Snape slammed the mirror face down on the table irritably. Bloody know-it-alls.

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	3. Chapter 3 : Waltzing Hermione

Chapter 3 : Waltzing Hermione

Despite the lateness of the hour, Hermione found herself unable to sleep in the narrow, lumpy bed. She ignited her wand and stared up at shadows cast onto the slanted ceiling, hands clasped together as though in prayer. Ever since she had received her first letter from the Ministry of Magic she had lain awake fretting night after night, willing sleep to rescue her from the pervading gloom of her increasingly pessimistic thoughts.

When she had received that first letter her immediate reaction had been disbelief, quickly followed by outrage. Yet somewhere along the line she had conformed to the traditional Richter scale of grief and felt nothing more than tired acceptance. She wondered what the old S.P.E.W. Hermione would say now, if confronted with her present, helpless incarnation. She had tried to fight the law, at first. When it had first appeared as a short summary proposal occupying a tiny corner of the _Daily Prophet_ she had immediately understood its impact and recoiled in horror. She had fired off rapid letters of opposition, even attended a rally, only to be pelted with eggs rewarded with hate mail for her efforts. Incredible as it seemed, popular opinion had eventually swung round in favour of the legislation, electing to view the Ministry as some sort of benevolent dating bureau. Disgusted, she had dropped her quill and renounced any further efforts; let them fight their own battles, for she was war weary enough.

She bit her lip. How could she have been so stupid? Even when the Ministry began lowering the age restrictions she had felt safe in the knowledge that her youth would afford protection long before a compulsory marriage was necessary. And when she had been proved wrong on that count she had comforted herself with the certainty that such legislation would never be applied to those working in the public sector. And now… and now she had no one else to blame but herself for the predicament in which she found herself. Well all she could say was thank God for George Weasley – an invocation that she was sure was entirely novel to the Almighty.

Everything had seemed to move so fast after their speedy declaration that the three weeks reserved for wedding preparations had flown by. Her eyes turned naturally to the white dress hanging on the back of the door. It was hard to believe that this time tomorrow everything would be over and that garment would be consigned to the back of the wardrobe, never to be worn again. If she was lucky.

A timid knock on the door broke her from her reverie. Frowning, she pulled on a dressing gown as she slipped out of bed to answer the door.

"George?" She squinted at the sudden rush of light from his wand.

"The very same," he replied, slipping in through the thin crack before deftly shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He held out a hand to steady the swaying wedding dress, catching sight of the discreet price tag still dangling from the hem. "How much!" he spluttered.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Blame your mother. Never mind a Death-Eater Revel; you don't know true violation until you've been to a wedding dress fitting with your future mother-in-law."

George turned around from his appraisal of the offending garment. "Well at least someone's getting some enjoyment out of this whole charade. I don't think I've been so in favour with the family since I accidentally trod on Percy's violin. Repeatedly."

They smiled at one another, instituting an awkward silence when neither of them could think of anything to say, before they both went to speak at the same time.

"No, go on," George insisted, colouring slightly.

"I was just going to say that I'll be glad when this is all over and we can get back to normal."

"You can say that again!" George said, hearing himself speak in an unnaturally hearty voice.

Hermione wondered why he was here, but thought better of asking outright in view of the fact that this was his parent's house, after all. "Have a seat," she said, half hoping that he would decline, citing his intention to leave shortly and leave her alone with her thoughts. He surprised her by taking a seat at the dressing table chair, forcing her to lower herself likewise onto the bed.

Truth was, he had been unable to sleep himself when he had noticed the soft light creeping out from under her door. He hadn't really thought about what he was doing until she had opened the door and peered out at him with red-rimmed eyes and a tired anxiousness that seemed to mirror his own feelings – not that a Weasley twin could ever admit to such things.

"How – how are you feeling?" he continued courageously, trying to strike out any hint of his pre-wedding nerves. Just imagine all those eyes upon him tomorrow and how idiotic he would look standing at the altar in a stupid set of dress robes!

Hermione shrugged, unwilling to open herself to the inevitable mockery by admitting to her worries that the Ministry would uncover their ruse. "Okay, I suppose," she said, hugging her knees to her chest as she regarded him cautiously.

"I just thought I'd see how you're coping contemplating your last night as Hermione Granger." George leaned back onto the back legs of the chair, fixing her with a confident grin that struck a discordant note against her jangled nerves.

"I'm getting a kiss from the groom, not a Dementor. I don't intend anything to change," she said firmly, although it didn't quite ring true in her head.

"Well, apart from your surname, of course. It'll be Hermione Weasley from now on." He smiled, contemplating how she would handle a playful poke in the side. Best to err on the side of caution, he decided, as he examined the unknown entity sitting opposite.

"George, even Muggles abandoned that sort of nonsense years ago," she snorted.

He frowned, setting the front chair legs firmly back on the floor with a loud thud.

"You didn't seriously expect me to take your name, did you?"

"Well, I had hoped-" George began.

"I'm not some chattel, passed from my father's keeping to my husband's the moment I utter 'I do,'" Hermione interrupted angrily.

George's face creased in puzzlement. "It doesn't mean that at all." He sat up straight, regarding Hermione intently – it was a bit rich accusing the child of that eternal matriarch and battleaxe, Molly Weasley, of disrespecting and underestimating the fairer sex. "It's a way of showing commitment."

"No, true commitment involves equality and compromise. True commitment would dictate a marriage of surnames as well as of souls." Despite recognising the unwelcome reversion back to their old Gryffindor Common Room roles, she seemed unable to stop herself as she warmed up to the theme.

George snorted. "I don't think Weasley-Granger's Wizard Wheezes has quite the same ring to it."

"Well then, you can't complain, can you?" Hermione shot back.

"Hermione, with all respect, I don't think you quite understand how it works in the wizarding world." Merlin's beard, if he couldn't even persuade his own wife to take his name, how on earth did he expect to get taken seriously by Fred, much less his business contacts?

"What, because I'm just some silly Muggle-born who needs to be married off to a wise old pure-blood as soon as possible in order to decontaminate my M-mudblood." She cursed the wobble in her voice as all the pent-up anxiety threatened to pour forth in front of George.

"Hermione! I would never – ever – think such a thing!"

Hermione looked up to regard the hurt expression in George's eyes and felt her anger dissipate. "I'm sorry, I know you're not the one I should be angry with." She sighed wearily, suddenly tired of it all.

"It's alright." He shrugged. "I guess we've all got pretty wound up with this idiot Marriage Law. You know, it wouldn't surprise me to hear that Umbridge had a podgy hand in it."

This led to several fruitful minutes spent slagging off Dolores Umbridge and recounting their experiences during her Hogwarts reign. Hermione particularly valued the first-hand account of the Weasley twin's infamous exit from Hogwarts, having been subjected to so many vying testimonies in the intervening years. She had a twinge as she felt for the briefest of moments what it must have been like to have been part of the Weasley twins' popular circle at school, before reverting back to her usual sensibilities.

"But weren't you worried about leaving school like that, without any qualifications?"

George shrugged. "Sometimes you've got to take a chance and go with your instincts. Let's face it, I was never going to follow my father along the conventional path and get a nice safe job in the Ministry."

Hermione turned her head toward the wedding dress. "Shame that you can't always choose which path you want to take," she said sadly.

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Snape glared at the dancing couples, arms folded oppressively across his chest and a scowl fixed firmly on his face – an unconventional mating ritual, to say the least. His lip curled in disdain as he took in the entwined form of Hermione Granger and whichever Weasley it was that she had recently bound herself to – they all looked the same to him. He stifled a yawn. Yes, it had all been very well presented and lavish – what, with the gross of white doves and Mermish choir - but he couldn't help thinking that it reeked terribly of new money. He looked dismissively around the giant marquee, trying to calculate how out of pocket Weasley junior would find himself in the cold reality of morning.

The song finished abruptly, and he watched Hermione peel herself away from her new husband and glide over to the side of the dance floor. Left to his own devices, George immediately embarked on an impromptu and energetic jive with Professor McGonagall. Zounds! He shuddered as he averted his eyes from the messy results of a particularly misjudged throw. Well that sight ought to put a dampner on Weasley's marital relations tonight, he thought wryly to himself. Not that he needed an additional dampner; Hermione Granger's relentless enthusiasm should prove trying enough. Still, even he wouldn't be so churlish as to deny the certain degree of charm she had managed to conjure up for the occasion. He supposed that was the point of expensive clothing. Well, at least that was one less unmarriageable and unmanageable Muggle-born removed from the gene pool. He scowled and returned to the constructive business of tearing his paper napkin into shreds.

"Hermione, have I told you how beautiful you look today?" Snape lowered his eyes as Dumbledore greeted Hermione enthusiastically to his left, rolling his eyes at the old man's sentimentality.

"Many times," she laughed - a high, tinkling sound which seemed so carefree that he had difficulty connecting it with the class bore he remembered.

"No dancing partner? Oh dear, this will not do, no indeed!" Snape noted the slurred edge to his words and cringed as he observed the wineglass clutched in his hand. Some people simply didn't know when to stop.

"No, really, I think I'll sit this one out."

"Nonsense, I won't hear of it! I'd do the honours myself if it weren't for the old injury." He tapped his knee knowingly and winked. "Look, Severus would be delighted to give you a twirl, wouldn't you, my dear boy?" He slapped Snape heartily on the back and was rewarded with a surly scowl.

"No, really, Dumbledore-"

Snape smiled wryly at the note of rising panic in the girl's voice, and almost felt tempted enough to take the wrench for a spin just for the entertainment value of watching her squirm at their close proximity. He snorted as he imagined her reaction to a bit of the old groin-grinding routine. But before he could dwell any further on his sadistic impulses he found himself being pulled up out of his chair and forced into the very real and unpleasant reality of dancing with his former pupil.

"Miss Granger," he said curtly as he placed a hand stiffly around her waist and took her hand in his own. She bristled as she felt the rough, callused skin of his fingertips brush against her own. His grip was surprisingly strong. "Oh, I beg your pardon - _Mrs. Weasley_ I should say," he sneered, sounding anything but apologetic.

"Ms. Granger, actually," she corrected primly, colouring slightly.

They continued in silence, Hermione's heart thumping madly in her ribcage. His graceful movements, rather then enhancing her own, only succeeded in increasing her sense of nervousness lest she commit some error of footwork. Flustered, she accidentally trod on his left foot.

"No wonder you were left on the sidelines," he snapped, fixing his black eyes on her flushed face.

"Sorry si – Severus." She stopped herself from using his formal teacher's title just in time and blushed a deeper shade of red. Snape smirked to himself, gripping her tighter around the waist and pulling her closer as he noted the incensed eyes of The-Boy-Who-Lived and his red-haired flunkey watching from their table. His hand migrated down from her waist, long fingers spreading towards the curve of her behind and stopping just short of indecency. He grinned wolfishly at Harry and Ron over Hermione's shoulder, the smooth fabric deliciously cool against his skin.

"So, Hermione," he whispered silkily in her ear, feeling her hair tickle his cheek and savouring the very differing responses his actions seemed to be effecting on the golden trio. "Weasley's money good enough for you but not his name?"

"Wh – what?" She couldn't believe that anyone could be this rude - but then this was the same man of 'I see no difference' fame. "Not all of us are locked in some Neanderthal past masquerading as tradition," she answered tartly.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Really? I would have thought that sentiment precisely describes the family you're marrying into."

"And how would you know?" Hermione spat back, trying to pull her hand free from Snape's crushing grip. He pulled her closer roughly, causing her to stumble into him.

"You'd be surprised what you can observe if you choose dignified silence over clumsy chatter," he drawled slowly, before loosening his grip around her waist and taking a small step back as he looked her directly in the eye. She shivered as the cold black eyes penetrated her own, goose pimples breaking out on her bare shoulders. "You think you've married into some caring, sharing, big happy family? Think again, Mrs. Weasley. Unorthodox their opinions may be, but their veins still run with that old pure blood, however much they try to fight it. You'd be surprised how corrupting even the merest hint of pure blood can prove."

"I suppose you'd know," Hermione shot back, looking over her shoulder for someone to cut in and rescue her.

"Yes, I most certainly would," Snape replied silkily, causing Hermione to turn back round at the surprising tone of civility in his voice. "I've seen enough of their type to know exactly how they think. And," he raised his voice to block Hermione's interruption, "I've seen enough of this particular family to know exactly how they act. Look at the way Molly Weasley treated her first daughter-in-law – that is, until her beloved son suffered such a severe maiming that she realised no one else would have him."

"How dare you!" Hermione fought against his grip, no longer caring if she made a scene.

"No, you will listen to me." The low, menacing tone of his voice instantly quelled her struggles. "You can make all the pointless political gestures you like, but nothing – nothing – will change the fact that henceforth Hermione Granger has been scratched from existence. Welcome to the wizarding world." And with that he stalked off, Robes billowing behind him to the dying strains of the song.

"Nice dance, Severus?"

"No it most certainly was not!" Snape shouted irritably behind him at a swaying Dumbledore.

"Jolly good! Jolly good! Ah, Kingsley…"

He exited the marquee angrily, kicking a tent peg for good measure. To think, in less than a month's time that would be him taking to the dance floor with his new spouse. Not that he intended on having a dance floor at his wedding – there was little enough to celebrate and he had no intention of publicising the fact. He lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag, his stiff posture relaxing slightly as he exhaled. Merlin's beard, but this was a mess to find himself in! Not one of the hideous Gorgons here deserved the title of Mrs. Snape.

"Hermione, are you okay?" Harry asked, noting the red flush in her cheeks as she sat down at his table, carefully arranging the folds of her dress.

"Horrible man!" she spat, and no one needed to ask to whom she was referring.

"Scum bag," Ron muttered, his recent coldness toward his friend apparently forgotten in light of their common enemy. "You know what I think? I think that-"

"Hermione?" George interrupted, pulling her up gently by the hand. "Shall we?"

Ron scowled as he watched the pair waltz back onto the dance floor.

"Having fun?" George asked, looking down into Hermione's face. His eyes were gentle, readable, and there was none of the searing heat and tension in his loose hold that had been so evident with Snape. She was safe, comfortable. She nodded dumbly. "Welcome to my world," he said, unintentionally echoing Snape's parting remark.

She bit her lip, hoping that she had made the right decision.

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A/N:

1) Protestant pastor Martin Niemöller's famous poem about moral failure in the context of Nazi Germany:

First they cam for the communists, and I did not speak out because I was not a communist;

Then they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out because I was not a socialist;

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist;

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew;

Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak out for me.


	4. Chapter 4 : The Unwelcome Visitor

Chapter 04: The Unwelcome Visitor

Snape eyed the flurry of owls descending into the Great Hall warily, coffee cup poised midway to his lips. A large, tenacious looking bird peeled off toward the High Table, veering off at the last minute to deposit a small scroll in front of Dumbledore. Snape sighed with audible relief, taking a sip of the scalding hot liquid in the knowledge that this might well be the last day in which such small pleasures would register. Still, he allowed himself a tight-lipped smile as he considered the evident difficulty the Ministry was experiencing in their attempts to match him to a bride, for he had been on the ministry's marriage register for nearly a fortnight and had yet to receive notification of a successful match.

"Expecting something, Severus?" Dumbledore cut across his gloomy thoughts, receiving a non-committal grunt in reply. "Between you and me, I'm still waiting for my biting teacup to arrive from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes."

"I'm sure the suspense is killing you," Snape replied dryly, absent-mindedly stirring a spoonful of sugar into his drink.

"Actually, it's most unlike them to be late, but I suppose young mister Weasley has more pressing concerns at the moment, eh?" Dumbledore nudged his companion conspiratorially, adding a suggestive wink for good measure. Snape shuddered as Dumbledore turned his attention to the newly delivered mail. "Oh dear, oh dear me," he repeated as he lowered the parchment from his face. "It seems that we are to receive a most unwelcome visitor."

"Yes, I had noticed that Ms. Granger was returning from her honeymoon after the weekend," Snape said testily.

Dumbledore tutted disapprovingly. "I was referring to this letter from the Ministry of Magic, as well you know. It seems you have been making trouble for them again." Dumbledore eyed him above his half-moon spectacles, a twinkle in his eye. "So much so that they feel it necessary to reward you with a personal visit from the Department of Internal Wizarding Relations."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "What the devil do they want now?"

"Your hand in marriage, apparently. They tell me you're proving most unco-operative?" Snape ignored Dumbledore's inquisitive tone and folded his arms oppressively, refusing to quench the old man's insatiable appetite for gossip. "Yes, well, I can't imagine where they got that idea from," Dumbledore muttered as he folded the letter crisply in half and handed it to Snape.

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"Hermione, George, welcome back!" Mrs. Weasley embraced the two weary travellers as they stepped through the door and into the welcome warmth of The Burrow. "I trust you had a nice time?"

Hermione looked sideways at George only for him to defer judgement back. Well, she could hardly say the truth, could she? She could just imagine Molly Weasley's response to the intelligence that she had had a lovely two weeks in Rome, thank you very much – couldn't say how George had fared on his adventure holiday in New Zealand, though. Personally, she had always regarded the honeymoon as a strange prerequisite to married life; a combination of mutual isolation and warmer climes serving to open up the beloved's every flaw to a whole new level of scrutiny.

Aware that some answer was expected of at least one of them – and preferably in the positive – she smiled and assented that they had had a lovely time in Scotland. George grinned knowingly at her before stooping to accept a kiss from his mother.

"I can't wait to hear all about it!" Mrs. Weasley squealed, pressing Hermione's hand. "I remember my own honeymoon. We went camping in Dorset and the sun shone every single day - Arthur insisted that it was his doing," she smiled at the memory, a dreamy look entering her eyes.

George tried to stifle his yawn, but Mrs. Weasley's keen eyes noted the action and she smiled indulgently at her son. "You can tell me all about it tomorrow. You must be very tired," she said to Hermione, before turning to address George. "Now I've made up the bed in Bill's old room and laid out some clean towels for you both. Is there anything else you need?" They looked at one another and shook their heads. "Good night then," she smiled, turning to glance at them one last time with a contented look on her face before turning upstairs for bed.

Hermione turned to face George expectantly. "So, shall we, erm, retire…?" she trailed off, unsure what to do next.

George nodded, sensing her uncertainty and colouring as he thought of the double bed waiting upstairs. "Do you want to go up first and get ready?"

Hermione nodded, grateful for George's sensitivity as she made her way up to the top floor bathroom. He had promised that she only need stay for this one weekend, just for his mother's benefit, and she hadn't had the heart to refuse when he had bashfully approached her at the end of her holiday with all his usual bravado stripped bare. Of course, it may have just been the Mai Tai cocktail in her hand doing the talking.

She shuffled into the bathroom, changing hurriedly into her pyjamas before brushing her teeth with her usual degree of thoroughness. She chanced a quick look at her reflection in the mirror, groaned inwardly at the travel creases around her eyes, before splashing some cold water on her face. Her nocturnal preparations over, she tiptoed across the landing to Bill's room and slipped between the crisp, fresh sheets on the bed. Her hand hovered on her wand, before she decided that it would probably remove some of the attendant awkwardness if she extinguished the light and feigned sleep.

"Hermione, are you awake?"

She ignored the soft whisper as she heard the door creak slowly shut and the light tread of George's feet across the darkened room.

"Oof!" she groaned as a sudden weight pressed down on her legs.

"Oh, sorry, didn't see you there," George apologised, getting up and walking around to the other side of the bed as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

Hermione felt the mattress dip alarmingly as he got in and clawed herself back from onto her side of the bed, stifling a giggle.

"What?" George said defensively.

"I'd forgotten it does that."

George digested her words for a couple of seconds, before propping himself up on one elbow and turning to face her. "Hermione Granger, you dirty little minx!" he exclaimed. "As far as I can remember, mum always put you in Ginny's room when you stayed over," he said, peering into her face with a wicked grin on his face. "Although I also seem to recall that Ron commandeered this room at round about the same time."

Hermione flushed in the dark.

"I thought it was the younger siblings who were supposed to get all the hand-me-downs," he teased, rewarded with a wallop in the face from Hermione's pillow.

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"Well, what is it man? Out with it!" Snape snapped as he banged a substantial bundle of homework scrolls down onto his desk with a resounding thud.

"Really, there's no need for any hostility!" the thin, nervous-looking man protested, all the while steeling himself not to flinch. Merlin's beard, of all the worthless, thankless tasks in the world this must just about top them all. Three weeks he had been working for the Ministry of Magic and he was already mentally composing his resignation letter. He spent his days traversing across Britain, single-handedly disproving the maxim that there was no satisfaction to be gained from shooting the bearer of bad news. Professor Snape was his third case today, and his reaction far from extraordinary. "I'm just the messenger, Professor. Maybe we could sit down somewhere to discuss your circumstances?"

"Sit!" Snape roared, and the young wizard found his knees shooting away from underneath him, seemingly of their own volition. Snape smiled coldly, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair as he surveyed the man from behind his teaching desk, feeling that he was at last on familiar territory.

The man hesitated, as though waiting for permission to speak, before finally opening the interview with a brusque efficiency. "As you know, I work for the Department of Internal Wizarding Relations," he paused, ignoring the snort of contempt his introduction elicited, "and we make it a policy to track all outstanding cases. Now according to my notes you have been on the marriage register awaiting a match for thirteen days. Perhaps you could tell me why you think you have been unsuccessful so far?"

"That all depends on one's objectives. I think you'll find I've proven remarkably successful in fulfilling my own," Snape shot back, staring challengingly into the young man's eyes.

He ignored Snape's provocation and ploughed on. "Well perhaps you could tell me why you think you have proven so difficult to match?"

"I don't know - one would imagine that ex-Death Eaters of ambiguous loyalty would just be snapped up straight away."

"Yes, well, I think you may have hit the nail on the head. I've been looking through your case notes and I think you're approaching things with a very negative attitude. My job here is to troubleshoot any developmental areas and set you on the right path toward finding a match. My main concern at the moment is your evident lack of self esteem, which is something I hope we can work on together."

Snape snorted contemptuously, a thin smile curling the corners of his lips. "I expected to receive an ultimatum, not therapy."

"Believe me, it's just as important to us that you're compatible and happy in your match as it is to you."

"Since you're not the one who's going to be banging the nag every night I find that extremely hard to believe."

"Professor Snape!" the man exclaimed, colour rising to his face.

"Although, since you're going to be selecting my bride from the rejects' list, I suppose I'm being overly optimistic in my conjugal expectations."

"This is exactly what I'm talking about," the man said soothingly, feeling vindicated by Snape's outburst. "We don't use terms like 'reject', and there's no need to feel that you have failed because you were unable to procure a bride for yourself. Nobody's judging you and you mustn't feel that it reflects any inadequacy on your part."

Snape spluttered. "I should think not! It merely reflects the inadequacy of the available breeding stock."

"Professor Snape, it is in your interests to co-operate with us in this matter."

"I am co-operating," Snape growled through gritted teeth. "If any other whippersnapper invited himself into my office and presumed to deconstruct my character flaws in front of me the least he could expect was a visit to St. Mungo's."

The young man frowned, scribbling furiously on his scroll of parchment before he looked up to face Snape again. "Professor, I am going to recommend you attend a series of Ministry-run workshops to explore your developmental areas. Not least of all anger management," he added pointedly.

Snape scoffed. "You can recommend all you like, but I'm damned if I'll waste time on this foolish nonsense."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find the Ministry can be sufficiently persuasive in these matters," he replied with a watery smile.

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If one more cup of tea was forced upon her, Hermione thought she might just scream. She eyed Mrs. Weasley across the room, trying to calculate how much of her body mass was taken up by a bladder. She looked up to see Hermione's eyes on her and smiled. "I can't think what's taking the men so long coming back from the shop." She paused, holding her knitting in front of her for a brief appraisal. "Still, it's been nice spending some time together, hasn't it?"

Hermione nodded, feeling slightly wretched for her earlier delight that Sunday had arrived at last.

"Still, I expect I'll be seeing a lot more of you from now on. Particularly once you're settled and start thinking about a family of your own. Would you like a large family, Hermione?"

Hermione had just enough wits about her to mask her strangled exclamation as a cough and mumble something about waiting until the time was nearer before deciding.

Mrs. Weasley nodded in wise agreement. "Quite right, because you never really know how you're going to feel until you've had the first one. If the first one sleeps through the night then you feel ready for anything. Bill was like that," she said, beaming with pride. "Never known a sweeter-tempered baby!"

Hermione was struck by a sudden curiosity. "So what was George like?" she said, leaning forward with a smile on her face at the anticipated answer.

Mrs. Weasley lowered her knitting. "Don't worry, dear, I'm sure your babies will take after their mother."

Hermione laughed, temporarily forgetting her desire to return home.

"Of course, I know George would like a large family," Mrs. Weasley continued, knitting needles clicking in rhythmic accompaniment.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, deciding that now was not the time to contradict a mother's sentiment.

"And obviously _I'd_ be delighted, but then I've never really believed in interfering, not like some of the other families," she said, sniffing disapprovingly. "I think it should be your choice, so you don't need to worry about any of that in this family."

Hermione thought that this was an extremely odd thing to say, but decided to put it down as yet further example of maternal egoism. It was only later, when George escorted her home, that she decided to share the comment, thinking to raise a laugh. To her surprise he remained stony-faced, saying that he wouldn't put it past her, considering that she'd already raised a request for grandchildren two weeks into their marriage.

"Oh come on," Hermione laughed. "I know it sometimes feels like she's omnipotent, but not even the great Molly Weasley can stretch to an Immaculate Conception."

George looked at her curiously. "Didn't anyone tell you about pure-blood marriages?"

"Tell me what?" Hermione said, frowning slightly at his serious expression.

George shifted uncomfortably. "I thought you knew. Well someone ought to have told you!" he exclaimed, running a hand through his hair.

"Told me what?" Hermione repeated, starting to feel alarmed.

"About - about the consequences for Muggle-born witches marrying into pure-blood families," George said, refusing to meet her eye.

"Like what?" Hermione demanded suspiciously.

George eyed her carefully, as though trying to decide whether to continue, before taking a deep breath and beginning his recital. "Before the wizarding world went underground, we had a lot of trouble with Muggle fathers refusing to let their daughters marry into the wizarding world. And then once the persecutions started in the Middle Ages, Muggle-born witches found their loyalty divided between their husband's family and their kin." He paused to check that she was still following. "To prevent Muggle-borns from betraying our world the marriage ceremony was revised, so that when a Muggle-born witch married into a pure-blood family she renounced the claims of her kin and placed herself under the head of the pure-blood family – and the purer the blood, the stronger the binding," George paused, eyes scanning her face intently.

"And?" Hermione prompted impatiently.

"And when you got married you were binding yourself not only to me, but to the entire Weasley family. Technically, my mother's your family head now."

Hermione stared incredulously at George. "And you didn't think to tell me any of this when you proposed marriage to one of the oldest blood lines in Britain?"

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	5. Chapter 5 : An Unwise Revelation

Chapter 05: An Unwise Revelation

Snape broke off mid-sentence, scowling as he watched the familiar figure make her way toward the High Table, pausing to reprehend two fighting Slytherins.

"You were saying, Severus?" Dumbledore prompted, taking a large bite out of his toast.

Snape muttered something inaudible under his breath, which nevertheless clearly contained a string of impressive oaths. Dumbledore followed his line of vision.

"Ah, I see. You were rejoicing Hermione's return."

"Look at her, flouncing around the place with typical Gryffindor arrogance," Snape said, so disgusted that his breakfast lay forgotten as he scrutinised her movements.

"Which I suppose is preferable to typical Slytherin ill-temper?" Dumbledore suggested, a twinkle in his eye. "You know, I would tentatively suggest that any man who got half as much glee from deconstructing the behaviour of a member of the fairer sex would be considered violently in love."

"Don't be ridiculous," Snape scoffed, finally tearing his eyes away from Hermione. "I'm merely attempting to negate a liability, whilst struggling to comprehend why on earth you saw fit to employ her in the first place."

"Because she got the highest Arithmancy N.E.W.T. score of the last decade; because she got a full set of Outstanding exam results; because she is sensitive to the needs of her pupils and a popular teacher; because she has published several extremely promising research articles," Dumbledore counted off the points on his fingers before finally pausing on his thumb, "and, oh yes, she bribed me with the most enormous bag of strawberry bon-bons."

Snape scowled petulantly. "I got you some sherbet lemons for Christmas, didn't I?"

"And very much appreciated they were too," Dumbledore said reassuringly, patting him lightly on the back. "Now what was that Ministry nonsense you were telling me about?"

"They want me to attend anger management workshops," Snape muttered quietly.

Dumbledore roared with laughter, attracting the attention of several curious pupils who had never known Professor Snape to crack a smile, much less a joke. "Ah, priceless," he said, wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye when he had finally managed to regain his composure.

"I'm glad my misfortune proves reliably entertaining," Snape said testily. "And that's not the worst of it. They also want me to undergo counselling. Apparently I have self-esteem issues, which will be miraculously cured by sitting in an overstuffed armchair and discussing my childhood with a stranger in an ill-fitting set of tweed robes."

"Well at least it buys you a bit of time. They can't consider you for a match until you've completed your course of therapy."

"I suppose there's some truth in that. But what the devil did he mean, 'the Ministry can be sufficiently persuasive'?" Snape pondered, mimicking the offending civil servant's pompous tone. "Because I can tell you the only way they'll persuade Severus Snape to attend counselling sessions is under _Imperius_."

"Perhaps unnamed individuals who start referring to themselves in the third person shouldn't be so quick to question the value of psychiatric help," Dumbledore said merrily as he spooned a generous portion of jam onto his toast.

"And how can anyone be charged with low self-esteem when the Ministry's consistent stupidity provides a veritable public service in ego boosts – even Longbottom's wits look razor sharp in comparison." He paused to smile in satisfaction at his own quip. "No, I'm not going and that's final." He picked up the offending out-patients appointment from St. Mungos and was just about to tear it down the centre when Dumbledore let out a significant cough. "What?"

"Severus, I don't ask you to do things for me very often. For one thing I am not nearly foolhardy enough to ignore our school motto, and for another it is not for me to dictate another's destiny. But," he paused, raising his hand to quell Snape's interruption, "I think that this occasion warrants an exception."

Snape looked at him in bewilderment. "You agree with this madness?"

There was a long silence, during which Dumbledore thoughtfully stroked his beard. "Rest assured they will choose to make an example of you if you don't, and I will most probably lose my Potions Master as a result."

"That's not what I asked," Snape said cannily.

Dumbledore sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Time is a most potent force - they even say it heals, although I'm not sure I set much store by that belief. Nevertheless, we have a finite amount of time in this world. One of the great benefits of growing old is that one has already used up so much of the stuff that it starts to run out of places to go and slows down, until eventually it stops altogether and the only direction it can take us is backwards, like an ebbing tide leaving only the saturated grains of time behind. Of course, this makes it more difficult to dip one's toes in the waters, so that all we are left with for memories are the deep pools among the rocks. The key is not to stay in too long and drown."

"I happen to know you're an excellent swimmer," Snape said, impatient with Dumbledore's fussy analogy.

He continued, regardless of the interruption. "I've been floundering in a particular memory for a long time now. I can never truly know what you went through during the war, what great darkness you endured for all those years as you laboured under the mantle of spy. What I do know is that at some point you began to see your burden as a comforter, as a justification for turning your back on the world. Would I ask the same of you again? Alas, I cannot go back and change your past, but please, do an old man one last favour and let him think that he has shaped a more pleasant future for his trusted friend."

Snape was silent for a long time. "This really means that much to you?"

"I should hope that your happiness meant something to you, too."

He sighed. "Alright, I'll do it."

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"I wish you wouldn't do that," Hermione said irritably, not even bothering to turn around as she heard the unmistakable crackle of floo travel emanating from the fireplace. "Just because you can, doesn't mean you should," she continued.

George grinned. "My, aren't we in a bad mood today?" Hermione deigned to throw a stony glare over her shoulder before returning her attention to the disorderly stack of homework scrolls on the desk in front of her. "Ah, you're still sore about the whole pure-blood thing."

"See, in the Muggle world it's considered rude to let yourself into other people's homes, but maybe we're just weird like that," Hermione muttered, half to herself as she continued to leaf through the stack of essays, cursing the bond which now allowed any Weasley free entrance through her wards and into her chambers.

"I got your note," George ventured cautiously. "Mum had mentioned something about dropping in for a surprise visit.

"Or two, or three. Honestly, George, you have to say something to her - reassure her that I'm coping perfectly fine adjusting to married life."

George nodded grimly. "I know, but she can tell that something's not quite right."

"And trust me, you really don't want to know want to know what she imagines that something might be." Hermione grimaced, remembering the painfully frank conversation of yesterday. "And you especially don't want to know her suggested solution."

"Yeah, sorry about that. She, erm, thought I might be having difficulty coaxing you out from your shell, as she euphemistically put it."

"What?" she exploded incredulously, spinning round to face George. "Interfering old bat."

"Hermione!"

"Well it's true. Why instantly assume it's my fault? I'm so tired of being forced into a nice little mould to make everyone feel better about themselves. I'm literate ergo I must be sexually dysfunctional?"

He shrugged. "And I run a joke shop ergo I must be illiterate. Stereotyping happens all the time in the wizarding world, Hermione."

"No doubt to the advantage of pure-bloods," she replied bitterly.

"You think my family's had it easy? When you're a clean state you at least have the freedom to make mistakes, instead of constantly being assessed against lofty ancestors and found wanting," George pointed our reasonably.

"Well at least people are willing to spend their expectations on you – no one's trying to neutralise your Muggle subversiveness with a pure-blood babysitter," she snapped irritably, aware that she was unwisely re-igniting the flames to a well-trodden argument. Her efforts to wring some sort of empathy out of George in the week since his revelation had been about as effective as S.P.E.W. Harry was as usual absent in places unknown, and she could hardly complain about the turn of events to Ron. She knew that she couldn't undo her actions, that words wouldn't change anything, but all the same she just wanted someone to take her hand, look her in the eye and agree that it stank.

"Can't you just forget it?" George wheedled, his last attempt at steering the conversation toward a more amicable topic. "Other people manage fine. It really doesn't need to impinge on your life. She said herself that she has no intention of interfering."

"Other people manage with broomstick boils, but I imagine it's not something you'd consciously subject yourself to," she shot back.

"You're comparing me to a nasty skin complaint – red and unpleasant? I must say I'm hurt." He grinned, taking a conciliatory step toward her. He felt safer cracking jokes - it was what he knew and something that required no recourse to the risky world of emotions. Of course, if he had wanted to avoid emotional intercourse he should never have come. He could have simply Owled back a response, reassuring her that he would have a word with his mother and persuade her to give her reluctant daughter-in-law some space, for there had been nothing in Hermione's terse note which had intimated that his presence was required. But he had felt that he at least owed it to her to put in a personal appearance, despite the stack of paperwork awaiting him at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

Hermione sighed wearily. Whenever it seemed as though she was making a breakthrough George would pull back with a sudden quip. She wanted to share her confusion and hurt but all she could feel when she tried to reach out was an impenetrable wall. At the very least she needed more concrete reassurance that Molly Weasley would leave her to make her own decisions than the vague reassurances issued by George under duress. It was quite hopeless. She would have to place her faith in more reliable sources.

After George had departed with a cheery wave and an unwanted invitation from Molly for Sunday lunch at The Burrow she began her search in earnest, hurrying down to the library before closing time. But try as she might she couldn't find anything on pure-blood marriage customs in any of the reference books and, despite Madam Pince's inquiries, she had a strange feeling that this was not a topic to bring up in polite conversation. There was only one person who could be relied upon to know the answer, and he was also the one person who could be relied upon to deny it.

Of course, she had foreseen when she accepted the job that Snape would likely object to the appointment, but she had expected that, given time, she would eventually earn his respect. In some ways the thought had thrilled her, as she had imagined finally vindicating herself after years of being dismissed as an uninspiring and insufferable know-it-all. What she had not counted on was the sheer depth of his prejudice. And she knew that if she allowed herself to show even the smallest hint of a reaction to his persistent vendetta then her position would become very tenuous indeed.

Yet how to draw the information she needed from Snape? She paced up and down her room, trying to draw together her sum knowledge of his character. He would derive sadistic pleasure from the mere fact that she had been forced to approach him for help, but the key question was whether he would derive more from the opportunity to display his superior knowledge or from the opportunity to deny her request. Clearly Snape was not a man who relied on the plaudits of others for his sense of worth - he did not need to be needed. All those years he had passively absorbed suspicion and criticism as he performed the dangerous but thankless task of spymaster to the Order of the Phoenix. And then there was the Half-Blood Prince's textbook which had uncovered the inaccessible brilliance which lay behind his cold and uninspiring classroom manner. Hermione shook her head. No wonder he had despised her constant need for praise and encouragement as a student, for it had gone against every inch of his carefully cultivated intellectual introversion. She could not then appeal to Snape's sense of pride to get the answer she needed; she would have to try to think like Snape and rely on cunning.

Sighing, she pulled on her discarded teaching robes and began to make her way down to the quiet of the dungeons. It was not yet curfew but the castle was deserted in favour of the warm summer evening. She knocked tentatively on the door to Snape's classroom and was curtly ordered to enter.

"Severus?" Hermione shut the door carefully behind her and walked over to his desk.

He looked up from his stack of parchments in surprise at her voice, clearly expecting someone else.

"Yes?" He sounded wary, but not altogether unapproachable.

"I wonder if I could have a word with you?"

"You may have several," he replied icily, quill poised in anticipation of a short interview.

"Thank you," she paused, unsure how to frame her delicate request. "It's er, a rather personal matter."

Snape dropped his quill and pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. "Good grief woman then I suggest you go to Poppy. While I may make the potions it is she who is responsible for dispensing them."

"Not that personal!" Hermione squeaked, embarrassed merely at the thought of discussing such matters with the formidable head of Slytherin House. "It relates to my recent marriage." She struggled over the words, barely able to meet his eye.

"Well, what do you want? Congratulations?" Snape drawled sarcastically, enjoying Hermione's state of discomfort. He pushed his work away and leant back in his chair to survey his victim, a cruel smirk working at the corners of his mouth.

"Actually I was wondering what you could tell me about pure-blood marriage customs." Snape's eyebrow shot up. "You hinted toward something at my wedding, but I can't seem to find any information on the subject."

"You wouldn't," Snape replied coldly. "They don't generally publicise the ways of their world."

"But it's something you know about?"

Snape looked at her sharply, weighing each word carefully. "Yes, I know a fair bit about the working of pure-blood customs."

"I was wondering – wondering whether you knew about the power of pure-blood families over Muggle-born witches?"

Snape laughed - a hollow, mirthless sound. "Oh, how I would hate to say I told you so."

Hermione reddened. He was toying with her. Worse than that, he was enjoying it. "Severus, this isn't easy for me."

"No, but then I seem to recall that few things ever were," he said dryly, face frowning in concentration as he attempted to straighten the nib of his quill.

"Oh for Cerce's sake," Hermione huffed, pulling the quill from his hands and uttering a quick straightening charm. "I came to you for help, admitting that I don't have the answer to everything. You win, okay?"

"What makes you think I want to help you?" Snape said slyly, examining his newly-straightened quill with a certain degree of satisfaction.

"Besides the opportunity to privately revel in my misfortune, I suspect that you despise the current Marriage Law just as much as me."

Snape shrugged. "Whilst the former is undoubtedly true, I have no cause to believe that your hatred amounts to anything more than a self-righteous attempt at inflicting your precious principles on the rest of us. In short, since you were not affected by the Marriage Law I fail to see how you can possibly equate imagined moral outrage with harsh reality."

"Wasn't I?" Hermione said coldly. "You think I wanted to get married so young?"

Snape stared, before recovering himself. "So you shacked up with your boyfriend a little early, who cares?"

"He wasn't my boyfriend," Hermione said quietly.

"Well, well, well," Snape smirked, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head, "this is a turn up for the books. Hermione Granger, Hogwarts resident egalitarian, wilfully bending the law for her own ends. You know, one could get in a lot of trouble for that - least of all dismissal."

"You wouldn't," she said, feeling a chill spread through her body.

"No? Give me one good reason why not?"

"Because I happen to have many useful contacts in the Ministry who would just love to pull up a Marriage Contract for you." Hermione took a step closer, placing her hands on his desk as she continued to expound her pre-prepared threat. "Fancy finding yourself married to someone who would make Dolores Umbridge look like Mother Theresa?"

"Is that your attempt at a threat, Ms. Granger?" Snape said silkily, amused at the sudden turn in her countenance.

"No it's a 24-carat promise," Hermione snarled, surprised herself with the vehemence of her voice.

Snape paused to consider his options. On the one hand, this was probably just Gryffindor bluff – after all, she didn't even know that he had already been the recipient of a Marriage Contract - but on the other hand, could he really afford to make that gamble for the sake of imparting some trivial information? Besides, he now held considerable leverage over her and it would be best to let her leave thinking that she was the one who had scored the victory. He sighed theatrically. "What do you want to know?"

He proceeded to outline the historical implications of marriage to a pure-blood, but went on to explain that the impact of extensive intermarriage during the intervening centuries had all but wiped out any binding magical imperitive. The only lasting implication lay in the stubborn residue of tradition, where ingrained attitudes dictated a degree of subservience from the Muggle-born wife in penance for her family background.

"But then I'm sure you're more than capable of defending your rights," he smirked.

Hermione shot him a hostile glance, before standing up and preparing to leave. She paused by the door, opening and then closing her mouth as though debating whether to say something, before finally taking the plunge. "Thanks, Severus. I didn't expect to say this but you've been a real comfort." She smiled before leaving.

"No, thank you," Snape said under his breath as he considered just what he could do with Hermione's unexpected but far from unwelcome revelation.

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A/N: Thanks for all responses to my last chapter – they were really useful in providing a steer for where to go with this one. However, review of the week has to go to **TCFellows** for the following gem: "Get her out, get her out!"


	6. Chapter 6 : The King of Swords

Chapter 06: The King of Swords 

Hermione hurried along the corridor, robes flapping behind her as she struggled to adjust the strap to her bag whilst maintaining her speed. She was supposed to be meeting George in Hogsmeade ten minutes ago. Not that punctuality was a particularly prized virtue among the younger Weasleys, but she saw no reason to forego the courtesy she so often enforced on her pupils. Hurrying around the corner she had little time to stop herself before colliding into a shawl-covered mass of indeterminate sex.

"Hermione!" it squawked, before revealing itself as a rather unsteady Professor Trelawney. Great, this was all she needed when she was running late.

"So sorry, Sybill." She hastily bent down and began picking up the miscellany of knick knacks dropped in the wake of her collision, dumping them unceremoniously into Trelawney's scrawny arms.

"The Tower!" Trelawney trilled as she turned over the card which Hermione had handed her. "Oh dear me, girl! Great upheaval and chaos! You must reassess your values before it is too late." She clutched Hermione's arm in a vice-like grip. "Come, come, child, let me complete your reading."

"That's quite alright," Hermione said stiffly, trying to extricate herself as politely as possible but without giving any cause for encouragement.

"Oh, but you must hear the rest, for how else will you recognise the path you must take toward fulfilment? I see a great emptiness in you," she said in impressively ethereal tones.

"That's probably because I haven't had any dinner yet," Hermione said dryly, trying to side-step the obstinate obstacle which was preventing her from rectifying the problem.

"You never did have a very strong inner eye," Trelawney replied sadly, "but you must complete your reading or untold misfortune will – Severus!" She broke off suddenly, turning to face the new addition to her impromptu têtê á. têtê.

Snape cursed as he realised that it was too late to back up the corridor and attempt a different route to the Great Hall. "Sybill," he acknowledged her as civilly as his haste would allow, before spotting a tarot card face-down on the floor in front of him. "Here." He shoved it ungraciously into her full hands, hoping that it would provide distraction enough for him to slip past her unmolested.

She turned the card over in wonder, looking from Hermione to Snape with a wily smirk on her face. "The King of Swords; he is intelligent, powerful-"

"And that's the first bit of sense I've ever got out of you," Snape muttered under his breath as Hermione stifled a giggle.

"- and wilfully independent. He has complete mastery over his emotions and he alone can steer the querent along her difficult journey to fulfilment."

"Fascinating I'm sure," Snape said dryly as he attempted to sweep past.

Trelawney held out her arm to stop him. "Pick another, finish the reading." She waved the pack of cards obtrusively in his face. Well anything to shut the old bag up and escape from her clutches.

"And you, dear?" She turned to Hermione, bulbous eyes regarding her disdainfully. If Snape had done it then she supposed it was quicker to go along with the charade than protest. She rolled her eyes at him sympathetically as she plucked out a card at random, only to be rewarded with a sneer for her efforts. Trelawney turned it over with undisguised glee as she examined the bound and helpless figure depicted on the card. "The Eight of Swords. Oh dear, we are in a tizzy, aren't we? A difficult situation must be resolved. You must ignore your inner conflict and confront your indecisiveness to move on – perhaps with the guiding influence of the king?" She looked at Snape shrewdly, before turning over his card with unnecessary flourish, gasping as she unmasked the final set-piece. "The Lovers!"

Snape growled and pushed past her impatiently – proof if ever any was needed that Divination was a fraudulent branch of magic.

"But wait, I haven't told you what it signifies! The opposing forces and sacrifice of a torn heart-"

Hermione hastily followed his example and hurried away to Hogsmeade. She glanced at her watch as she sped down the cobbled street toward the Three Broomsticks. Despite the vagueness of George's invitation, she felt strangely anxious at the possibility that he might have given up waiting and returned home. She told herself that she was merely looking forward to conveying the impotence of his family's magical binding and issuing a few ground-rules of her own – such as a capping limit on the number of Weasley visits to her chambers. She needn't have worried, however, for she immediately spotted him as she rounded the corner, lounging on a picnic table outside as the warm evening light hit the back of his head.

"Hello George." She smiled as she swung herself onto the opposite bench. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

George eyed her shrewdly. "Last time we met you were practically one step away from throwing a thesaurus at my head – something happened?"

Hermione smiled enigmatically. "Nothing, absolutely nothing."

"Funny sort of nothing if you ask me," George mumbled as he took a swig from his pint glass.

"Well, that's precisely it, isn't it? I married you because nothing would have to change. _Then_ I discover that everything could change if your mother took it upon herself. And now? Well now I find out that nothing has to change after all. So, yes, I'm pretty happy with nothing."

George frowned. "Look, I don't mean to stand on your sandcastle, but I've already warned you against underestimating the determination of Molly Weasley."

Hermione laughed. "But that's just it; Molly can huff and puff all she likes but it's not going to make any difference. There's been so much intermingling of the blood lines down the years that the magical imperitive has simply broken down. You've taken subservient Muggle-born brides so for granted that you haven't even noticed!"

"I can safely assure you that subservience was the last thing I expected from Hermione Granger when I proposed marriage. Well, second to last thing." He added cheekily.

"George, I'm being serious," she chided.

"So am I! Although I'm starting to think that our ancestors might have had the right idea after all…"

Hermione reached across the table and administered a playful slap.

"See, they don't tell you about this part of marriage when you're standing at the altar promising unconditional love and devotion!"

"They also don't tell you about the in-laws, but I suppose they want some couples to actually go through with the ceremony," Hermione countered, smiling mischievously.

George contemplated how much she had improved in his estimation in the past month. He supposed that hadn't been a particularly difficult feat, considering the level of his former opinion, although he had yet to persuade Fred. He had wanted him to come this evening and see for himself, but he had received some muttered excuse about wanting to oversee delivery of a large stock order at the last minute. Still, he'd come around eventually, he just had to be careful to bend any conversation away from Hermione whenever he entered the room.

"Here," he reached into his bag and pulled out a small bundle of scrolls. "These were delivered to my flat. I think most of them are junk but I didn't want to throw any away just in case."

"Ah, I wondered where this had got to!" Hermione exclaimed as she untied the neat knot of string and plucked out a scroll. She examined the address critically. "No wonder – it's addressed to Mrs. George Weasley."

"Expecting something, were we?" George said, amused at her indignant expression.

"Yes," Hermione said distractedly, eyes flitting across the parchment. "It's my invitation to the Academy of Magic's annual Gathering," she said as she lowered the letter.

George perked up noticeably. "I suppose you need a date for that?"

Hermione looked up from the task of folding the scroll carefully into her bag. "Well, it's not _compulsory_," she stressed, "but it's certainly an option."

"And do you, er, have anyone in mind?" he continued, trying to maintain the casual tone in his voice.

"Well it's not usually the hottest ticket in town. Although they always do quite good canapés," she added as an afterthought.

At this point George was practically salivating. "So you wouldn't be adverse to maybe taking me along?"

Hermione regarded him shrewdly. "Why are you so keen?"

George rolled his eyes, staring at her as though she had just announced her intention to elope to the Black Country with Neville Longbottom. "It's a fantastic opportunity to get a heads up on all the latest research innovations. Me and Fred have been trying to wrangle invites for ages. Maybe they had some sort of forewarning from the barman at the Hog's Head. That was a joke!" he added hastily when he saw the look on Hermione's face.

She regarded him silently across the table for a few moments, seeming to weigh something up in her mind. "You really want to go?" she asked finally.

George nodded enthusiastically.

"I'll cut you a deal then; you can come as my guest on Saturday if you excuse me from lunch with your mother on Sunday."

George laughed. "Ooh I don't know; there's not much substance to those canapés. I'm sure my mother would just hate to think of her daughter-in-law wasting away by herself at Hogwarts."

"I'm sure your mother would hate to think of any of her brood feeling slightly peckish," Hermione responded dryly. "So do we have a deal?"

George reached across the table and clasped her hand in his own. "Done."

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"Something the matter, Severus? You look quite flushed." Dumbledore smiled genially as Snape took his customary seat beside him at the high table with an impatient sigh.

"Quite frankly I do not know what staffing procedure you employ at Hogwarts – do you perhaps advertise for vacancies in the back pages of _The Quibbler_?"

"I've already justified Ms. Granger's credentials." Dumbledore shot him a warning glance before returning to his dinner.

"I was actually referring to Mrs. Rochester up there in the North Tower, but thanks for reinforcing my point."

Dumbledore lay down his knife and fork with a delicate tinkle. "Ah, dear Sybill. Perhaps my employment criteria was slightly off at the time-"

"Ha!" Snape broke in with a triumphant interjection.

"-because I also happened to interview a very surly Potions Master around the same time."

"Oh very funny," Snape said dryly, digging into his beef wellington with venom.

"Well that will cheer you up at least." Dumbledore nodded to the scroll lying propped up against the water jug in front of Snape.

"Oh Merlin's toe nails, is it really that time of year again?" Snape sighed heavily as he opened the invitation from the Academy of Magic. "I do find these things so tedious."

"Nonsense – it will be a chance for you to socialise with your peers for once. You'll never find a wife at the bottom of a cauldron."

"Nor will I at the Academy of Magic Gathering – just a room full of chinless wonders competing to bore me rigid with the latest research on the healing properties of Albanian frog's bladders or whatever nonsense they've wasted the last year scraping from the sides of their empty skulls. And I must stand there nodding politely in all the appropriate places whilst sipping the lukewarm cat's piss which passes for decent wine at these events."

"Therapy working, then?" Dumbledore inquired innocently, and was rewarded with a glare from his companion.

Snape quickly glanced around to check for potential eavesdroppers. "You would not believe what they have got me doing," he said through clenched teeth. "Degrading does not even begin to describe this Muggle-influenced nonsense."

"Oh? Got you out in the forest hugging trees?"

"I-what? Why on earth would anyone want to hug a tree?" Snape said incredulously, forehead creasing as he tried to picture such a seemingly pointless activity.

Dumbledore shrugged. "It's what they do, sometimes. Apparently it helps them feel closer to nature and reconcile themselves to the existence of a higher being."

"Should lend them the use of the whomping willow – that would certainly reconcile them to their maker," Snape snorted.

"So how is it really going?" Dumbledore repeated in a more serious tone, leaning forward with a look of concern on his face.

Snape sighed. "First they tried hypnotherapy."

"And?"

"I'm a skilled Occlumens – what do you think happened?" Snape snapped impatiently, before continuing a little defensively. "He didn't give me any warning and I reacted reflexively – although I'm assured it's nothing that a short spell in St. Mungo's won't heal. So now they've assigned me a new therapist who believes in some mumbo-jumbo called Cognitive Behavioural Therapy."

"Which means what, exactly?"

"I'm supposed to undo old thought patterns by resolving upon new actions. Today, for example, I tried being nice." Dumbledore let out a strange cough which soundly oddly like stifled laughter. Snape glared at him briefly before continuing. "So this afternoon for the entirety of my O.W.L. class I held my tongue – despite considerable provocation from some particularly appalling attempts at a simple swelling potion. I even smiled at one of my students for producing a passable result."

"And?" Dumbledore prompted.

"She screamed and knocked over her cauldron. I spent the rest of the day neutralising the classroom. You see the thing about Slytherins is that we're not expected to act any other way, and when we do attempt to break out of the mould we only excite suspicion and mistrust. The rest of the wizarding world need us to take all the flak, because heaven forbid they begin to take notice of their own deficiencies in the absence of a convenient scapegoat."

"Come, come you do not give your house sufficient credit. Imagine a world full of Hufflepuffs – all courtesy and fairness that we'd never get anything done."

"And a world full of Gryffindors?" Snape raised his eyebrow, but Dumbledore refused to rise to the bait.

"No, we need Slytherin qualities as surely as we rely on those from the other houses."

"Oh, yes, I'd forgotten; you believe we should disregard centuries of experience pointing to the contrary and all join hands to skip off merrily into the sunset," Snape said sarcastically. "Presumably under the leadership of a singing hat, just to add some gravitas to the occasion?"

"You do not believe that opposites attract then?" Dumbledore smiled knowingly.

"No I most certainly do not!"

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A/N: …ever noticed that Trelawney often has an uncanny knack for prescience?

6


	7. Chapter 7 : The Right Idea

Chapter 7: The Right Idea

Snape took a tentative sip from his goblet, lip curling in distaste at the rough texture of the wine. Of course, he had expected a certain degree of belt tightening in the immediate aftermath of the war, but he rather thought that the period for outward austerity had overstayed its welcome. Merely enjoying oneself seemed to be something of a social crime these days. Snape thought that this was hardly fair considering that he had devoted the better part of his youth to defending such prerogatives, only to be rewarded with a dose of dour Puritanism once he was finally in a position to enjoy them. What the hell – he had little enough reputation left. Shrugging, he downed the rest of the objectionable wine in one swig.

"Now, now, Severus, are you sure that's wise – wouldn't want people to get the wrong idea."

Snape spun around to face a middle-aged woman regarding him intently from behind a pair of jewelled spectacles, long red talons clinking impatiently against her wineglass.

"Not that anyone could blame you for turning to drink after all you've been through, of course," she simpered sympathetically. "I can see the headline now: '_Controversial war hero driven to drink by demons from shameful past'_. How about an exclusive interview on your battle with the bottle?"

Snape looked down his hooked nose imperiously at her, a look of bewilderment puckering his forehead. "Do I know you?"

"I expect so. Rita Skeeter, _Wicked Whispers_ columnist on the _Sunday Prophet_."

Snape ignored the proffered hand and eyed her suspiciously. "Didn't you report on the Tri-Wizard tournament at Hogwarts?"

"That's right!" she exclaimed, showing a flash of gold as she grinned triumphantly. "At least, until a certain interfering little madam decided to stick her grubby brown nose in where it wasn't wanted," she finished darkly, shooting daggers across the room at Hermione's turned back.

Snape followed her line of vision, snorting when he discovered the target of her vitriol. He should have guessed – no one had the ability to turn up a back quite like a self-righteous Gryffindor. His gaze caught her engaged in earnest conversation with a wizened looking gentleman, forced into a deferential pose by his diminutive stature. Next to him she managed to look tall – graceful, even, Snape realised with a start as he followed the slim outline of her body. Well, provided you liked that sort of thing.

"Former pupil of yours, wasn't she?"

Snape snapped his attention back to Rita with obvious surprise that she was still there, assenting with a curt nod.

"And now you have to work alongside her as equals!" she cackled, eyeing him shrewdly.

"Equals, no," Snape barked abruptly. "I would like to think that two decades of experience count for something against youth."

"Oh, I didn't mean to cause _offence_," Rita said unconvincingly, laying a hand on her chest in a gesture of sincerity. "But I suppose it must be terribly trying working alongside one of Dumbledore's favourites. Get much preferential treatment, does she?" Despite the casual tone, Snape noted the look of feral excitement in Rita's eyes and looked down to see her hand gravitating toward a Quick Quotes Quill sticking out of her purse.

Snape sighed boredly. "I can't imagine why you think the inanities of Miss Granger's life worth reporting on, but I can assure you that there is nothing of the extraordinary about her."

"Harry Potter sells." Rita shrugged, as if to personally disassociate herself from such frippery. "Say, how about an exclusive from his former teacher," she continued, perking up considerably, "something about teaching the Boy-Who-Lived everything he knows?"

Snape snorted. "Believe me, if I thought that were the case the last thing I'd want to do is advertise the fact in a national newspaper."

Rita looked at Snape curiously before leaning in closer and dropping her voice dramatically. "You know, it's practically impossible to publish any criticism of the boy these days – the Ministry's still so uptight about the war. Unfortunately there's only so much column space I can squeeze out of his puerile existence before I want to gouge my eyes out with my own quill. Nobody said anything about his little friends though," she finished with a malicious glint in her eye.

"You mean to expose Miss Granger?" Snape said, staring thoughtfully into his goblet as he swilled the dregs around the bottom.

"Why, got any goods on her?" Rita replied mischievously, raising a heavily pencilled eyebrow in open invitation.

Snape's mouth lifted in a wolfish grin.

Hermione smiled politely as the tiny professor excused himself, scanning the atrium for a familiar face. She dismissed the idea of wandering over to George and checking on his progress, realising with a slight pang that any such move would really be for her own sake. He had barely stayed by her side for more than five minutes before slipping off to participate in more advantageous converse. Not that that was a bad thing, of course - that was the whole reason why she had invited him along to the Academy of Magic Gathering – but she had been relying upon him to provide some enlivening intervals.

A splash of magenta suddenly caught her eye among the muted greys and blacks. Peering through the crowd she drew back with a start as she was confronted with the unmistakable profile of Rita Skeeter. Well, she may have been running a little short on stories recently – her expose of the flavourings used for Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans being a particularly moot case in point – but surely even she couldn't hope to wring much by way of scandal out of these grey-haired academics? And yet she certainly looked curiously pleased about something. Craning her head, she tried to ascertain the identity of the companion responsible for putting the triumphant glint in her eye.

Merlin's beard! She recoiled in horror as Snape's smirking features swam into view. Only one thing ever put a smile like that on his face – and it certainly wasn't Christmas sodding cheer. Schooling herself to breathe, she strode across the room to halt the potential catastrophe. Or rather, she contorted herself through a maze of elbows and feet, her panic heightening with each muttered 'excuse me'. Snape had been trying to secure her dismissal ever since she had arrived at Hogwarts, and she had practically saved him the trouble of prevaricating over the means by volunteering the information of her illegal marriage. But maybe it was not too late, maybe Rita hadn't yet provided sufficient incentive for his slippery little Slytherin mind.

"Professor!" she gasped as she threw herself between a closing gap in the crowd like Jason through the Clashing Islands.

Snape looked down at her with studied disdain, his glittering eyes taking in her slightly dishevelled appearance.

"How nice to see you here," she finished lamely as his gaze remained fixed levelly on her flushed face.

"You didn't tell me you and your colleague were on such good terms, Severus," Rita said sweetly, although the accompanying smile didn't reach her eyes.

"Rita," Hermione said coldly, acknowledging her presence with a curt nod. "Attempted to ruin any more lives recently?"

Rita laughed; a high, brittle sound. "Such a sense of humour!" She smiled indulgently at Severus, who grimaced before diverting his attention to a passing drink's tray. "Not since you kindly saved me the bother," she hissed out of the corner of her mouth as she kept the rigid smile plastered to her face.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione replied tight-lipped.

"Well we're not looking quite so clever now that we're babysitting spotty teenagers for a living, are we?"

Snape eyed the sparring women and took a step back, marvelling at the good fortune that had intervened to combine two tedious conversations into one, thus allowing him the opportunity to slip away and participate in neither. Now, what sort of food did this place have to offer? He wandered over to the edge of the atrium, making eye contact with as many people as possible in order to ensure that he was not ambushed into conversation. It was funny, but he had learnt that the more he tried to repel interest the more it seemed to be pressed upon him, as though his peers took some sort of perverse pleasure in imaging themselves submitting the notorious Severus Snape to reluctant social intercourse. Yet any occasion when he actually felt inclined to talk to his fellow wizard – a rare enough occurrence as it was - then it would be all eyes down to the floor and six feet of Potions Master reduced to an invisible dot.

"Snape! Snape!"

Selective deafness was another tactic he had learned from them. Most impressive though was the contagion of muteness he was capable of imposing upon even the liveliest of gatherings upon his approach. One by one the fundamental human senses had been denied Snape, locking him out of social existence.

He frowned as a weight bore down on his arm, looking down at the hand resting on his sleeve with alarm. Touch had been one of the first senses denied the former Death Eater so that eventually – like a poor man who can preserve his sanity only by convincing himself that his previous riches were an unwanted burden – he had schooled himself into believing that the choice had been his. He froze, rooted to the spot as he internally raged at the impudence.

"Snape?"

He turned around painfully slowly, counting to ten in his head.

"If you value your fingers, kindly remove your hand from my arm, Granger" he said through clenched teeth.

Hermione's mouth opened in an 'o' of surprise before she whisked her hand away, suddenly struck by the impropriety of the gesture. "What were you talking about with Rita?" she said, trying to keep her tone as casual as possible.

"A shared interest in Japanese flower arranging – what's it got to do with you?" he retorted.

"Nothing, but I think you should be careful what you say around her," she replied quietly, "she has a habit of twisting even the most innocuous conversations into sensationalist lies."

"Sounds like a typical day in the Slytherin common room," Snape said dryly.

"I mean it," Hermione insisted earnestly, "she's utter poison and you can't trust her. Oh, she may seem charming enough now, but she'll turn on you the moment she runs out of stories."

"Oh, well that swings it," Snape said sarcastically. "Miss Granger _means _it. Excuse me a moment of worldliness, but my actions have rarely been dictated by your sincerity." He paused, seeming to savour the opportunity to insult her. "Say, didn't she once publish a rather damning portrait of you?" he continued slyly.

"That's got nothing to do with it," Hermione said steadily. "I'm warning you not to underestimate her - and you of all people should appreciate the fickle nature of the press."

Snape laughed harshly. "Or perhaps you are merely trying to cover your own back – worried I may let your little secret slip?"

"We both stand to lose something by dropping our guard with Rita," Hermione said coldly.

"Oh get over yourself. Typical Gryffindor arrogance," Snape said contemptuously, "imagining that no one has anything better to do with their time than sit around discussing you and your tedious little lives. It's all you, you, you," he sneered. "Excuse me, I feel the sudden need to participate in some intelligent conversation – possibly with a hat-stand if needs be," he muttered as he stalked away.

Hermione stared at the empty spot he had occupied seconds earlier. Why did conversation with Snape always leave her feeling like she had just gone ten rounds in the ring?

"Interesting level of professional respect your colleague maintains," Rita said indifferently, sidling up unseen.

"Don't you have anything better to do with your time than eavesdrop on other people's conversations?" Hermione snapped irritably, tearing her eyes away from Snape's retreating back.

"Not really, no," Rita replied brazenly.

Hermione scowled but refused to rise to the bait.

"Well at least we can discount one theory of how you managed to snag the most eligible bachelor this side of Diagon Alley," Rita said dryly as she eyed Hermione's thunderous expression. "Wealthy, intelligent and handsome – however did you manage it?"

Hermione was momentarily stumped as to whom she was referring, until she realised with a jolt that it could be none other than George. Her eyes automatically skimmed across the room to where he stood, laughing with his head thrown back as a distinguished-looking wizard slapped him heartily on the back. Undoubtedly George was not short of a galleon or two as one half of Weasley Wizard Wheezes - although she would probably have used the label 'prosperous' rather than 'wealthy'. As to his mental abilities, it was true that he had little enough paper qualifications to prove any claim to intelligence, but what George was capable of when he applied himself went beyond any bland recital of N.E.W.T. work, and she had always been ready to acknowledge this after that initial, unflattering, surprise. But handsome? She looked at him a little closer, taking in his amiable features and lively blue eyes, the irresistible hint of mischief hovering at the corner of his mouth. He was shorter than his brothers and stockier, so that he had never gone through the same gangly phase as Ron and carried his frame with easy confidence. As her eyes travelled back up to his broad shoulders she had a momentarily flash of running hands down those contoured muscles and felt a sharp, breathless stab in her stomach. Catching her eye across the room George raised his glass to her, taking it as a signal to make his way toward her.

She snapped her eyes quickly back to Rita's expectant gaze, snorting contemptuously. "Well if your bewilderment continues you could always stick with what you know and accuse me of slipping something into his pumpkin juice."

"Yes, I did rather enjoy that one," Rita sniggered, "and the readiness with which people were willing to believe you'd resorted to using illegal love potions has got to tell you something."

"Only that your readership is either stupid or gullible," Hermione flashed back.

"But seriously, how did you manage to get him down the aisle so soon?" Rita said, leaning closer in an attempt at creating intimacy. "I didn't even know the two of you were an item until your wedding invitations went out. Bit of a shotgun wedding, was it - wanted to make sure baby was born the right side of the bed sheets?" Rita winked suggestively, nudging Hermione hard in the side.

"That's none of your business!" she choked, taking a distancing step back as the colour rose to her face.

"Oh it's quite alright," Rita said airily, "no one takes much notice of it these days. Of course, the older families are still terribly traditional about such things, but nobody expects the same standards from witches of your background."

"I may not be able to claim a blood line back to the founders of Hogwarts but I can assure you that it carries no bearing on my sense of propriety and moral compass – unfortunately it appears that the same cannot be said of you," Hermione said through clenched teeth, forced to moderate her response by George's arrival. _'Bloody pure-blood mania,'_ she raged inwardly. If anything it had got worse since the Marriage Law had been enacted, suddenly necessitating the wholesale segregation of society as never before – which was painfully ironic considering that the Act had been passed as a direct response to the inadequacies of pure-blood offspring.

"Wotcher, Hermione." George beamed as he took his place beside her. "Rita." He nodded a civil acknowledgement to her.

"Oh, how nice," she said with a sickly smile, clasping her hands together. "I was just commenting on what a lovely couple you make."

"Funny, I recall reading a rather contradictory description of our wedding – 'a tasteless display of classless money' were the words I believe you used," George said, looking at Rita directly with a twinkle in his eye.

"I was just making the point that Mermish choirs are not quite to everyone's taste," she said, without the slightest hint of embarrassment.

"Anyway, I think I'm going to head home now," George said as he turned to Hermione. "All in all, a successful night."

"Good." Hermione nodded vaguely, wishing that Rita would take the hint and buzz off.

"Tut, tut, leaving without your wife – you will set tongues wagging," Rita said gleefully, wagging her finger at George as her other hand started to gravitate towards her Quick Quotes Quill.

"Of course he isn't," Hermione said bossily, suddenly realising the train of Rita's mental arithmetic as she looped her hand hastily through George's arm and shot him a warning glance. "Come on, let's go home, darling."

George bit the inside of his mouth to stop himself laughing at the term of endearment. "Quite right, dear," he responded, patting her hand lightly as he began to get into the pantomime.

Rita watched them walk over to the Floo queue at the fireplace with a look of calculating suspicion distorting her features. She wondered…

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A/N: Sorry about the long wait for an update – my memory stick broke and I lost a lot of work. However, I'm now back on track and things should really begin to kick off in the next chapter…

1) The Clashing Islands of Symplegades swung together to crush anything that attempted to pass into the Euxine in Greek Mythology. Jason and the Argonauts successfully navigated between them on their quest for the Golden Fleece by sending a dove through first.

8


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